Sustenance
by grey.fog
Summary: There are moments in life that sustain us, whether it be the body, soul, mind, or heart.  These are Peeta's POVs of those moments.  The moments when he gives her bread, she picks the dandelion, during Mockingjay when he questions everything, and when Katniss announce she believes in a future without Games. 4/4 Complete
1. Of the Body

Note: Welll sorry this took so long! This is a reviewer reward for Cruelest Sea.. I'm pretty sure. If I've got the wrong username please let me know! So they asked for the "bread and dandelion" moment from Peeta's POV. This is going to be a 4 part fic I think. This first part is the bread moment :) Hope you enjoy!

**Title: Sustenance**

_Subtitle: ..of the Body_

My mother screaming is nothing new. That she's not yelling at me is. Things have been tense around both the bakery and the house lately, ever since the death of one particular Miner. _Her_ Father. I often hear my Mother yelling, screaming, questioning my Dad about where he's been, whether he's been with _her_. I think she feels threatened and it leads to frustration and her frustration leads to both mental and physical abuse upon all of those in the family. She is an unhappy woman, and she'll make everyone around her feel just as bad.

"Get out of here you filthy little brat. I'm tired of you Seam lot hanging about. I'll call the Peacekeepers, I swear it!" She continued on, all her inward frustration pouring out at the poor person outside. It's not the first time we've caught people looking in the bins for some remnant of food. Usually I don't bother to look, but she sounds angrier than such a situation usually warrants.

I lean the broom up against the wall and walk up behind her to peer around her figure. All the movement in my body stills. Muscles freeze, my breath catching, and my heart coming to a complete halt. It's Katniss. The name pulls up all sorts of images. Of a little girl in a red plaid skirt with braided pig tails, of her walking with her little sister, or singing a tune to her Father's whistling in town. Those memories feature a happy girl, and are stark against the reality of this moment.

She's backing away and her gaze flickers in my direction and then away. There's no gleam of life in those grey eyes, just a wariness and defeat. I've seen that look before, and my hands clench into fists as Mom turns and stalks back into the warmth of the bakery, grumbling about what a shame it is that there isn't a way to keep _those_ children away. I'm not sure if she's talking about the children from the seam, or Katniss and her sister in particular.

I watch as Katniss trudges through the rain, her shoulders usually held back and straight are slumped forward as if there is a weight upon them. She looks so frail, and she looks like she's given up. I can't let that happen. Couldn't let it happen to anyone, but least of all her. Through the rain I can see her stop at the apple tree and as she slides down it, I know what I have to do. I know it may not work, but even more I know I couldn't live with myself if I did nothing.

I take a deep breath and turn as my mother says, "Pull the bread." It's a demand, not a request. And I know what I'll do even as the two loaves of bread, soft, warm and now soon to be ruined fall into the flames. I act quickly as I normally would to retrieve them, it wouldn't due for her to be suspicious. I have them back on to the tray just as I catch the motion of her hand and there's a sharp sting of pain across my cheek almost drowned out by her screams. I know that my ruining them is losing money for us, and that we'll go hungry a night, but at least it won't be a series of nights, nothing like Katniss has had to endure.

"Little idiot!" she yells, pushing me away from her. I stumble and set the tray on the cooling rack and pick up the two large loaves of bread. She's still screaming at me as I step outside into the cool afternoon air, the bread almost unbearably hot against the bare skin of my arms. It's nothing compared to the pain in my cheek though.

"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" I want to yell back at her, but of course I don't, I never have and don't think I ever will. For all of her faults, she is my mother, and she's stayed even when she's so unhappy. I like to think that something between she and my dad resembles if not love, than at least affection. I tear off chunks and toss them into the trough and breathe a sigh of relief as I hear the bell ring and she stops shouting and goes back into the bakery to help the customer.

I do not look at Katniss. There's too many emotions welling up within me and I'm not sure that I want to share them. I can feel her eyes on me and wonder what she's thinking. I've never talked to her before today, and I don't know that I will talk to her after, but I'll never get the chance if I let her starve. I glance back toward the bakery. She's still not in the doorway. I take my chance and throw one, and then the other, loaf of bread in her direction and make my way back to the bakery. I do not look back, even though I want to. I shut the door behind me.

My mother looks up at me from where she's counting the money in the register. Her expression is one I find hard to describe, her lips in a grim line, eyes hard, but she gives a shake of her head and goes back to counting the profit for the day, meager as it is. Her next words are not yelled, but they strike me all the same and they sting as much as they make me feel warm.

"Just like your father, Peeta."

In love with the daughter of the woman my Dad wanted to marry. Yeah, maybe I am.

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As always please review and tell me how I'm doing ;) Next up will be the dandelion moment.


	2. Of the Soul

Title: Sustenance

Subtitle: _Of the Soul_

The following day at school, no one asks me about the bruising or welt on my face. They already know or have guessed, and really abuse is not so uncommon in the District. And none will say anything, but I catch glimpses of compassion or sympathy, or just knowing in some of the other kid's eyes.

One pair of eyes I have failed, always fail, to meet today are Katniss. I had breathed a sigh of relief when I'd seen her at school. She looks a little better than she did last night, but nothing as I remember her in her brightest moments. I'd made a couple aborted movements all day to go and speak to her. But as always I don't know what I would say.

I find myself quite a few times wishing I had said something to her last night. It wouldn't have been odd as it would be for a town kid to just out of the blue speak to another kid from the Seam, and most of my friends have guessed how I feel anyway. I'm not exactly a hard book to read.

It's finally the end of the day, my cheek is throbbing, and my head hurts, but I stand there as I do most days until I see her. She's standing across the school yard, and all of a sudden she meets my eyes. I don't look away for once, don't avert my eyes as soon as her grey eyes are shifting my way. I want her to know that I _do_ see her. That she means something to me. I don't know that she understands, and I feel frustrated with my own inability to overcome my fear of rejection to just _tell _her.

And then she looks down and whatever meager connection we might have had is broken. But I continue to watch, tuning out a friend's voice who is asking me something about notes and class. She's bending down and picking something up, and from my distance I can see a splash of yellow and know it's a dandelion. Pretty to look and a survivor, like her.

There's a look on her face as she looks down at the bright weed, that lifts my own soul. It's not despair, it's not anguish or defeat, it's hope. And the girl I remember with the braided pigtails who smiled as she sang is suddenly there again. A little tattered maybe, but she shines through. A weight that I didn't know I was carrying lifts from my shoulders, heavier than any bag of flour I've hauled around the bakery.

I don't know why the dandelion caused such a reaction in her, but I hope that one day I can gather up enough courage to ask her. Or at least.. to talk to her. I'm only happy that she'll be there, whether I say anything to her or not. That's almost enough.

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Cruelest Sea: Thanks for the review :) I hope you enjoyed the dandelion moment too!

So far I've had: 75 Hits, 2 favs, 3 alerts. Thank You for those who gave the story a chance to read.

There are two more chapters I think after this one. I'm looking forward to writing the last, it will come before the epilogue. The next part takes place during Mockingjay.

As always.. PLEASE review! It really makes my day and encourages me to write a little faster :)


	3. Of the Mind

Note: this happens during Mockingjay Chapter 19, and much of the dialogue is from that. Sooo SPOILER!

**Title: Sustenance**

_Of the Mind_

The length of rope is rough beneath my fingers as I knot it continuously. Looping the length, pulling the end through, and tightening it. It's a repetitive action that helps me to stay focused, and it helps me not think. When I think, I become confused, or afraid sometimes, and that makes me both frustrated and angry and at a loss. That in turn causes the most horrid memories, or if they're all to be believed, hallucinations to come forth.

I hear someone sit down a little ways away. I glance up and see Katniss. My grip on the rope tightens and I close my eyes just for a moment to fight back the rise of what could be memories or what could be lies. She doesn't say anything, just sits there, and I continue with knotting the rope.

I cant keep focused on it anymore, and there's so much I want to know, and I can't help but to ask. "These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and Forth. Back and Forth." I tie the knot twice at the end, once for each repetitive statement. Perhaps the old Peeta, the one who I feel I don't even know, might have found that statement unfair, but I don't have his memories. Sometimes I feel as if I'm two people, or I'm another person and they're trying to make me believe I'm the other.

I expect her to say something sharp and angry, maybe agree to it, but she doesn't. "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as" she pauses and continues, "an ally."

I take a moment to think of the meaning behind that word. And I wonder if she had meant to say something else, but is maybe too guarded to do so. But it sounds honest, I am alive, aren't I? I've had some tell me of our times in the Games, sometimes I remember parts of it that seem true, and I know that there are times she could have left me to die and didn't. Whether it was to her benefit or mine or both I still haven't puzzled out.

"Ally," I say, drawing out the word still mulling over it, trying to make it fit into a puzzle that is missing too many pieces. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." I wonder if the old Peeta had ever actually been able to even with all memories intact. And I feel that it may be time for my own piece of honesty. What can it hurt?

"The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

I am not surprised when Finnick speaks up, "Then you should ask Peeta. That's what Annie does."

I want to laugh hysterically or cry or scream, I'm not sure, there's a feeling in my chest that is a bit overwhelming but I squash it down by letting the knots bite into the palms of my hands.

"Ask who? Who can I trust?" There's no one, but Jackson disagrees saying that they're my squad and that I can trust them. I counter with telling her that they're my guards.

"That too," she says. "But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It's not the kind of thing we forget." Truth again, I can trust that. And it makes me wonder despite my saving their lives, why they _care? _We sit in silence again, I look up at one point to glance at Katniss again before glancing as quickly away.

It reminds me of when we were in school and I never got caught looking, until.. a memory rises, something about a flower, a little bit of yellow. I frown and rub my forehead with the heel of my palm. It's not a shiny memory, it doesn't glisten or distort. So it must be real. Maybe. I try to focus on that one memory, and connect it to others. I think of the adjectives I have to describe her, and try to think of the small things I might have noticed before they fractured my mind.

I turn to her, and her face is the most open I've seen it. I recognize it, because I've seen it often in the mirror. It's despair, hopelessness, helplessness, and of course that ever present frustration. "Your favorite color.. it's green?" It sounds right, and it pulls up memories or images of her with a backdrop of forest and foliage.

"That's right." She says and I wonder if she is just saying it, but she continues, "And yours is orange."

I frown. There's something off about it, I don't think I've been attracted to that color. It seems too garish. And so I take Finnick's advice and ask, instead of continuing to doubt her answer. "Orange?"

She elaborates and this is one of the first times that I do find myself trusting her or at least her word. She's specific in her explanation and I close my eyes and try to see if I can grasp the image of the sunset she's describing.

I can but another memory surfaces of a rooftop and the lights of a city glittering all around. She's there and cold and I put my jacket around her.. would I do that if I hated her, if she was a Mutt? It's not a bad memory, doesn't have any pain to it except for maybe a little bit of heartache, and so I thank her. But she doesn't stop there, she continues on, the words spilling out of her mouth as if she's stored them and can no longer hold them back.

"You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." And then in a flash she's gone, but I catch a glimpse of her face and see anguish there. Anguish and loss. And that and her explanation give me hope and a lot to think about.

Those are not things a Mutt or even an enemy would know. Perhaps not even an ally, because why would an ally care if I liked sugar with my tea, or double knot my shoelaces? At least a friend then, maybe a lover or fiancée.

I do not know a lot of things. I don't know at times what's real or not real, I don't know if I'll ever have a mind that's not fractured, but there are also things I do know or want to know.

I want to know Katniss again, as I once knew her, because if the Capitol made me hate her as much as I have, I must have loved her a great deal more. And there's truth to that thought and I hold on to it.

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What do you think? Did I do alright. :) I hope so. One more chapter to go! "of the Heart" and it will hopefully be finished by next week. As always **please** review!


	4. Of the Heart

Note: Well this has been a long time coming.. I'm not sure if it turned out how I originally wanted, but it is finished now! I hope that this four chapter story was enjoyable. :)

Warning.. FLUFFINESS ahead! Haha :P

Sustenance…Of the Heart

It's a Tuesday and we're eating breakfast, the sound of forks scraping against porcelain the only sound in the eat in kitchen. It's a Tuesday and nothing is out of the ordinary until she breaks the silence, and the tone of her voice is one that she might use when discussing the weather when she says,

"I'm pregnant."

And now hers is the only fork that's moving, mine clattering to the table as I stare at her. I am afraid to breathe, afraid to move, but she's afraid too. It's in the way her fingers are gripped so tight around the handle of her utensil that the knuckles have turned white, in the way her lips press in on one another as if she's afraid that the words she just worked up the courage to say would try to slip right back into her mouth.

"Katniss?" my voice is barely a whisper, rough and unsteady.

"It's not that big of a deal, is it? People get pregnant all the time." But _we're_ not just _people. _My heart feels like it might just burn through my chest, the warmth of it, the fullness of it almost too much to contain.

A laugh that might sound a little hysterical escapes me as my chair almost slides across the room as I'm out of it and down on my knees next to her, looking up at her. I have her hands in mine, pressing small kisses to fingertips that are slightly sweet with the syrup she'd used to coat her breakfast.

It's her turn to laugh, and it's a little, okay a lot, nervous, but I know this will be what the future will hold. It'll be happiness with a touch of ever present fear, of moments that the fear is forgotten, but that those fear free moments might be fleeting.

It means a future, one that she believes in. The last decade has seen us struggling against ourselves, each other, the world as a whole, but for Katniss it has always been a struggle in the belief of a future without another Game.

Her pregnancy means more than the birth of a child, more than me and her and the creation of a being of both of us, it means she trusts again. It was no secret to me that she was taking medicine to keep any pregnancy from happening, and I wonder what it was that had made her decide to stop. I know it is not a mistake that has caused this to happen, and that like most things now in her life, she has planned it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, as I stand and pull her to stand as well so I can fold her into my arms, feel her body's heat against my own. There is silence for a moment, before she answers.

"I didn't want to get your hopes up, I.." she pauses again and so many words can fill that silence, I was afraid, afraid it would happen, afraid it wouldn't, afraid that the world would burn again if it knew.

"I wanted to keep it to myself for a little while, to get used to the idea," it was truth and it was a lie. I don't think she'll get used to the idea until the child is in her arms and alive, alive and safe, safe and sound. She looks up into my face, her grey eyes wary as she searches my face. I know she will only see joy and love, because that's all I can feel in this moment. Something shifts and she's smiling too, and she laughs.

I know that not all will be easy in the future ahead. There will be sleepless nights when nightmares of children caught in rope snares and eyes that are human and not human will haunt her, because the dream of having her own child will make her think of their lost futures. There will be times when she worries she will be a mother like her own, and days when she will feel as if this might be all a mistake.

But those will be the bad days, and the good days will be filled with talks of a baby's name and avoidance of names that bring up the sleepless nights. Not Rue, Not Madge, Not _Prim_. There will be readying our home for the addition of another person, of her blaming me testily for back aches and swollen ankles and the increasing shape of her that keeps her from as moving as swiftly as she'd like.

There will be love, a little laughter, and of all things, hope. And she and I can make it through the bad days, when the future is filled with all of that.


End file.
